


Not Even In Its Smallest Measurement

by Heyerette



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Fluff, M/M, Meddling Wizard, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Bilbo, One-Shot, Post-BOFA, Romance, The Shire, kid!Thorin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/pseuds/Heyerette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost a year after the Battle, Bilbo has settled back into Bag End, readying himself for a nightcap when he suddenly finds himself looking down at a strange dwarf-babe in his arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Even In Its Smallest Measurement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chamelaucium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamelaucium/gifts).



> Uhm, yes ... hello! For those of you patiently waiting for an update of "On This Quest" - I am so very sorry! I feel horrible for keeping you waiting so unusually long, all I can say is life has been rather difficult these past few months and I wasn´t in the right mindset for it, though I did try and have a little bit of the next chapter written. I promise I haven´t abandoned the series but I need to find my way back into it in a manner that gives both you, the readers, and myself joy. 
> 
> This ficlet here is an attempt at getting myself into the right frame of mind again, one-shots generally come easier to me and I adore hobbity kid!fics and dwarfling Thorin is particularly close to my heart so this happened. Not as flowingly as I wanted it to, it didn´t turn out quite the way I wanted it to but I hope it will still give you the odd fluff moment here and there. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks on the other stories, it really means a lot and continues to baffle me. :)
> 
> Edit: Guys, guys, guys! The loveable and talented [teaDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon) gifted me art for this! Lookit [here](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/122544803397/little-de-aged-thorin-from-heyerettes-fic-not) . It´s totally adorable and perfect. <3

There was a dwarfling running through his smial.

He had a dwarfling running through his smial.

A very naked dwarfling.

A very naked, _wet_ dwarfling.

He was going to _skin_ Gandalf.

And then ship him off to Lobelia.

And then ignore any subsequent shrieking.

Really.

That was just - 

Because honestly - 

And he had even selected the _fluffiest_ towel in his possession!

~ ~ ~ ~

A day or two, he had been told.

A few days, possibly.

A week, at most.

Bilbo had stopped counting at ten.

Clearly wizards had no understanding whatsoever when it came to their own craft and its repercussions and he was just going to take that in its stride and visit the market in Hobbiton. Yes. Excellent. 

He would get more milk and eggs and sugar and some berries and vegetables – and they were going to _eat_ them and not provide any other Bad Examples for impressionable faunt – dwarflings – and Bilbo did not at all care that the adult dwarf had tended to shun any edibles that bore even the smallest resemblance to Green Food (really, not even young Ori had been that difficult and could, eventually, be coaxed into at least _trying_ his offerings during that very last meal in Erebor and -) - and then store the lot away in his pantry and sink into his armchair again and close his eyes and pretend that there was - 

No tiny dwarfling having taken hold of one trousers-leg, looking up at him with those very serious, very familiar, very blue eyes. 

Expectantly.

He was an entirely weak hobbit.

A very weak hobbit.

Shamefully so.

Which was why he heaved a barely there sigh, gave in to his unavoidable fate and bent to reach down with both his hands; depositing the demanding toddler on his lap and letting one of said hands gently travel up and down the small back as the warm, soft form curled into his chest.

He really was in the basket.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was all Gandalf´s fault, of course.

That blasted wizard.

Just as he had managed to get used to being home – in the Shire – and he was very much used to it and really did not think about any adventures or travelling or strangers that had become friends that had become family at all, thank you – again, with no dwarven companions around to try his patience with their loudness and rudeness and all those rocks in their heads and to wreck his pantry and dance on his tables and do all those things that had made the hair on his feet stand on end, repeatedly, and which he would be more than willing to put up with if it meant he would see Thor- _them_ again …

He had left Erebor shortly after its King and his heirs had been declared out of immediate danger, even if the road to recovery had been said to be long, especially for the King under the Mountain. 

Thorin had nearly died.

Bilbo still had to squeeze his eyes shut when the memory of that moment in that tent made an untimely reappearance. 

The king had been so pale and so weak and there had been so much blood and it had taken all of the hobbit´s self-control to not throw himself on the dwarf´s heavily bandaged, wounded chest and pummel it with his fists and demand that he _lived_ or else he would - 

Weep.

Which had seemed quite the most sensible thing to do at the time, really, because there was the broken, dying form of his dwarf before him and - 

Not that the dwarf had had any knowledge of having been Bilbo´s dwarf, of course, but those were mere semantics the hobbit had no intention of dwelling upon. He had always known – ever since he had become aware of his feelings for the King under the Mountain – that his silly little hobbit heart had decided to take him on a hopeless quest. As it were. He had resolutely told himself that being the king´s friend would be enough and then there had come that moment, up on the battlements, when he had learned that he was going to have to live on without even that friendship – and had been lucky that he had even been allowed to live, according to _some_ (though the hobbit stubbornly insisted; amidst his own pain and anger and rage at the gold and the stupid stone and the dragon and his own silly, misplaced feelings, that it had been the sickness and _not_ the dwarf that had taken a small, mismatched company on a harebrained, suicidal mission of reclaiming a homeland) – and had been quite resigned to taking himself and his small pack of belongings back to the west, provided he survived that nasty battle he had not hesitated to join in when he saw his friends – his _family_ rush down the slope and - 

Well.

There he was.

Back in Bag End, having managed to retrieve most of the belongings that his loving cousin Lobelia had seen fit to auction off (and he was going to lay claim to the last of his mother´s still missing silverware one of these days, when he could be bothered to march down to the Sackville-Bagginses´ home and knock on their round door and deal with the simperings and the demands and the accusations. He did not anticipate that he would feel inclined to allow himself to feel bothered in that manner in the nearer future.).

Thorin had asked for his forgiveness, which he had granted (because he was a hobbit who had no control over his heart and his heart belonged to the stupid, weak dwarf on the makeshift bed before him and his obstinate heart just wanted the dwarf to live and if his forgiveness would ease the dwarf´s mind if not his body´s pain he was going to grant it and he had _not_ been fighting any tears, thank you very much and -); holding on to the weak hand that had groped for his and bearing the stare of those pale, blue eyes that had fixed themselves on him in a drawn-out silence, until they fell shut and the dark head turned away, facing the other side of the healing tent. 

And by some miracle – and a lot of wizarding, elven and dwarven firmness and interference – Thorin and the boys won their battle with eminent death. And Bilbo Baggins made his way back to the Shire. 

Oh, there had been tears and promises and even threats involved (Really. _Dwalin_ of all people! Although he could have done without the near bone-crushing.) but set off to the rolling green hills he had and Gandalf had escorted him to the borders of his homeland; eyeing him in that typical wizard fashion of scrutiny mixed with curiosity mixed with pondering mixed with knowing mixed with Very Much Gandalf Which A Hobbit Inclined Towards Self-Preservation Could Do Without. Entirely.

At least he had not brought the matter up. 

Directly.

Kindly.

Because - 

Thorin had not come to bid him farewell.

It had hurt.

Still hurt.

And that one evening when he had managed to _not_ think of that hurt and had been about to enjoy a lovely little nightcap of the honeymead kind, book on his lap, there had been an insistent knocking on his door.

~ ~ ~ ~

“A spell? What do you mean A Spell?! What – wait! _Gandalf!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo blinked down at the clearly unhappy toddler that had, rather unceremoniously, been dumped into his arms, his hold reflexively tightening as the dark haired boy began to squirm and fuss and protest and he was about to call out to the wizard to instantly return and take the babe from him when the squirming suddenly stopped and the hobbit found himself stared at by a pair of very familiar blue eyes.

Oh.

Well - 

That was - 

Uhm - 

Really now -

No.

No, no, no.

Nope.

It was just his mind.

It was playing tricks on him.

He must have had too much of that nightcap. 

Clearly.

Because that was entirely preposterous and absolutely impossible and all he had to do was close his eyes and then open them and then he would find he had simply fallen asleep in his sitting room and - 

He flinched at the feel of a pudgy little hand on his cheek, which instantly withdrew at the movement and when he looked down at the owner of the same little pudgy hand again he saw - 

Oh _Eru._

He was - 

The child was - 

Nope.

He really wasn´t going to be able to cope with that. At all. So - 

“Hush, now, little one”, he crooned to the dwarfling whose tiny lip had started to wobble dangerously, blue eyes huge and beginning to shine with - “There is no need for that now! Let´s take you inside and get you warm, shall we? Really, I don´t know what that wizard was about, dragging you around in this cold! No common sense at all, that tall folk! And you must be hungry, too, so we will just -”

The hobbit rambled on in that manner as he took his surprise guest into his home, shutting the round, green door behind him with the assistance of one hairy foot; mentally preparing the speech he was going to favour the wizard with upon the same´s promised return the next day. 

He did not even notice the little boy in his arms relaxing into his hold; a curly, dark head pressing itself against his shirt-covered chest.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Well, I am very sorry if you have no wish for it but little boys have to be clean before they go to bed and there is no-one else around so you will have to bear with my assistance and the sooner you stay still and let me wipe – _right_. That was – just – _right_.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The dwarfling was -

A menace.

And also terribly adorable.

And the way he had taken to following his every move with those intense, blue eyes of his – eyes that reminded him so terribly much of quite another, decidedly more grown dwarf who was probably doing whatever kings were doing at such a time of the day in that not-so-lonely-anymore mountain of his while Bilbo was there, in Bag End, looking after a miniature version of the confounded, beautiful dwarf whom his stupid heart refused to un-miss - 

The hobbit froze in his rummaging around his cupboards. No. 

Surely - 

No.

Someone would have told him if Thorin - 

Dwarves _loved_ children - 

And there was Fili.

So -

Perhaps his little guest was a cousin?

A few times removed?

Some kind of distant kin?

Which would explain the resemblance?

Hobbits three-times-removed from each other on the very extensive, confusing family trees happened to very much bare resemblances to each other at times so it would not at all surprise him if -

He had tried to coax the facts – or a resemblance of the same (and that made quite enough resemblances for one hobbit, thank you) which would enable him to put two and two together (he _was_ dealing with a child, after all!) - out of the dwarfling, of course, but even if Bilbo had no profound knowledge of dwarf children – Fili and Kili, much as they acted like dwarflings a lot of the time, were quite grown (or so he had heard claimed. Which he might have considered a little doubtful at times. Perhaps.) – he could guess that the little dwarf was of an age that resembled that of a hobbitling who had entered the toddling age, and the boy had shown a remarkably stubborn trait for one so young already in his refusal to even share his name with his temporary caretaker. In fact, the only sounds he had thus far been favoured with were little grunts and something akin to huffs and a very deep, endearingly long-suffering sigh once that he had been sorely tempted to coo over. And then there had been its very satisfied counterpart when Bilbo had taken him up into his arms and balanced the little form on his hip while pouring half the contents of a bottle of milk into a pan, adding some honey and beginning to stir it. 

A little fist had taken firm hold of his shirt, too.

And he had not really _minded_ being mistaken for a cuddle-toy. Or some such thing. The small, soft form pressed against him was – comforting. Soothing. 

Although he was still going to have words with Gandalf.

He had not even told him the babe´s _name_!

And he had almost used _Thorin´s_ a few times and that really would not do and - 

The hobbit wrinkled his nose.

Oh dear.

Really.

What had he ever done to deserve - 

Very well.

A bath, then.

That should not be such a strenuous task, the little boy´s eyelids had been drooping for a while then and all he had to do was take care that his curls did not get caught in his tunic while taking it off (he had once witnessed his cousin Peony Proudfoot wrestling her eldest out of one such piece of clothing and his ears still tended to lean towards ringing at the recollection of The Noise) and then put him into the tub and secure him with one arm and gently scrub the baby-soft skin before wrapping him up in a fluffy towel and put him down for a good night´s sleep. Yes. That sounded quite – sound. Sensible. Managable. He could do that. He had faced a dragon, he could deal with giving a child a bath.

Surely.

Children loved bathing time, didn´t they?

Well, he was very sorry but his dealings with his little cousins and neighbouring fauntlings alike had not yet included cleaning duty! Usually, he was able to ship the lot back off to their parents whenever such calamities occurred. 

So.

Right then.

Bath-time.

He unearthed the remains of his resolution while grabbing a spare shirt that had long been too small for him and made his way towards the bathroom, trusting dwarfling firmly attached to his hip.

Best to get it over and done with.

And hope that the little one had no objections.

Or not many.

Honestly.

The wizard owed him so many favours.

~ ~ ~ ~

He had been the recipient of a wash cloth.

To his face.

A _wet_ wash cloth.

Thrown into his face.

By a small dwarfling hand.

A surprisingly true one, if one thought about matters of aim and all that.

And now the little culprit, whom he had just so managed to wrestle into the tub which had been filled with what he had considered pleasantly warm and scented water – and the hobbit had made certain to use one of the special soaps that produced all those lovely bubbles to entertain his little guest, too! (fine, he might also have hoped they would prove a distraction, if it came to the worst, but no-one needed to be told that) – resolutely ignoring the wounded look on the chubby little face and meeting glare for glare (and if _that_ did not remind him of Thorin... he really needed to have little talk with his unreliable little heart. About pounding issues. Amongst other disturbing things. How could such a small thing glare so venomously to begin with? _What_ did they teach small children under all those rocks? His hobbit sensibilities shuddered to think of it.), seemed almost _amused _by the impression of a gaping fish his entirely rude action had provoked and really, what was it with those dwarves and their abhorrence of cleanliness and - _splash_ -__

__Oh, that was just wonderful._ _

__Quite._ _

__Very -_ _

__Much so._ _

__Perhaps he should just stay there, on the ground, bathing in the misery that was the acknowledgement of his failure to even see to a child´s most basic needs._ _

__And wait for someone to arrive who would clean up the mess in his bathroom._ _

__His knees really did not need that._ _

__And the someone would have to bring an adequate assortment of towels._ _

__Seeing his dwarfling-guest had not only managed to escape from what he had clearly considered a prison but also accomplished to empty nearly all of its content onto the floor._ _

__Or maybe a nice, little nervous breakdown?_ _

__With a few chosen words for wizards who mumbled some garbage or other about spells and then wandered off, dumping entirely unruly children with their big, sad, blue eyes on one in between moments of semi-clarity?_ _

__A _Took_ would take to that._ _

__And Bilbo Baggins was _half_ Took._ _

__Sadly, he was also half _Baggins_ and for some reason or other his half Baggins side decided to take command at that moment and firmly overruled any Took-ish tendencies and decided he had to dash after the toddler who had taken off as fast as his chubby little feet permitted him – which was surprisingly fast, come to think of it – and was currently scurrying through Bag End as naked as on the day he had been born. Funny how little hair there was to be found on the dwarfling´s body, really, but he supposed it would grow in later; much like the to be expected beard. _ _

__But then there was Kili and -_ _

__Right._ _

__He had a dwarfling to chase._ _

__And then he would put him to bed._ _

__And most certainly _not_ read him any stories._ _

__Not even one._ _

__Oh, he could not wait to drag Gandalf in by his beard._ _

____

~ ~ ~ ~

“He was very brave, you know, and really very stupid to charge at the Pale Orc on his own. But I did not care for that at that moment and if it came to it I would -”

Bilbo sighed softly as he ran his fingers through the dark, soft mop of hair.

“Maybe you will meet him one day, when you are a little older, and visit Erebor, perhaps. He is very magnificent, you see. Majestic, even. And very stubborn,” the hobbit smiled at the recollection, his fingers slowing in their movements. “Much like you are, little master. In fact, if I did not know better, I would think – but no matter; and it´s really high time for little dwarflings to sleep.” Bilbo attempted to gently disengage himself from the little form that had first curled up against his body – after having ruthlessly bullied him into joining him on the bed by the appliance of entirely unfair Lost Little Dwarfling Eyes ( _Eru_ help the ones who were usually in charge of the abominable tot!) when he had made to leave the bedroom that he had quickly readied for his small visitor – and then somehow made his way _onto_ his hobbit body, putting one soft cheek over the general region of his entirely too soft hobbit heart, making a hobbit practically melt away in view of such trust and contentedness and he really had no idea why his entirely too soft heart felt fit to burst while at the same time thumping wildly in his chest. Almost painfully so. 

It was probably all that thinking about Thorin. 

Which did him no good at all.

Never had.

And never would.

And the dwarfling needed to sleep or he would surely be cranky in the morning and Bilbo himself was not exactly a morning person so - 

“No.”

And that made him freeze.

And quickly look down at that curly mop, once he had reassembled his wits.

But the little one who had offered that astonishingly commanding communication was already dead to the world. Judging from the soft snoring noises. 

Right, then.

That was just -

Fine, so the dwarfling _could_ speak. Which was to be expected. Probably. And it was only one word. Very likely his first. Only one. And it would make perfect sense for a dwarf to make just _that_ his very first exclamation. And then stubbornly stick to it. And use it. Regularly. Decidedly. 

It had probably been _Thorin´s_ first word.

Once the dwarf – child - had deemed a mere glower not enough.

Which his highness had probably been borne with.

And which Bilbo thought would have been extremely adorable and - 

And he was going to wake up with a very stiff neck on the morning now, half-lying; half-sitting on the bed, as he was. But he really could not risk waking -

And if the little one needed the comfort of a presence - 

He might have nasty dreams!

Possibly nightmares.

Waking up in a strange bed, in the dark - 

No, his really, absolutely, entirely too soft and silly hobbit heart would not permit him to leave the small, trusting form that had, for some mysterious reason, decided to latch onto him. 

Even if he had found himself attacked by a soaked wash cloth.

Which he would never mention.

To anyone.

No-one.

At all.

He did have his pride.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Aren´t they _cute_?”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Mister Boggins!”

_Nope._

“Bilbo!”

_Certainly not._

“We´ve made breakfast -”

_That was a little more interesting._

“- and you wouldn´t want Gandalf to have all the pancakes -”

_True, but he could always make more later, when no twin whispers loudly demanded his attention and -_

“- Thorin _really_ needs his nappy changed!”

_Well, yes, he could smell that but if he could just manage to fall back asleep that would not – WAIT – what?! -_

_Thorin?!_

~ ~ ~ ~

A pair of bushy grey brows rose in mild astonishment.

“My dear Bilbo – who else would be qualified to look after him?”

~ ~ ~ ~

The hobbit gaped.

Then spluttered. 

Then gaped a little again.

“You - _Gandalf!_ I haven´t seen a single hair of any dwarf in close to a year; there has been no communication, no sign of -” Bilbo ignored the small pang around the general region of his heart - “I think His Majesty made it very clear that he no wish to continue our acquaintance. And you _think_ -”

“I think you will find that you are perfectly capable of looking after a small dwarfling for a day or two, Bilbo Baggins. One who does not visibly seem to have any objections to being in your care.” 

As said small dwarfling was currently curled up against his chest, firmly resisting any attempt by the two princes of removing him from the lap he found himself on – Bilbo would even go so far as to express the view that the boy had been positively snarling at the young heirs, amidst pointedly turning his head away and making determined and repeated use of his favoured term of refusal. Loudly. To the younger Durin heir´s great misfortune – well, perhaps Kili would now learn to _not_ simply try and snatch an already grouchy toddler away and if he did so to at least assure that his ears were well out of surprisingly powerful vocal chords´ reach. The exasperating boy´s complaining had only stopped when Bilbo had shoved a plate of cupcakes across the table.

Really.

One dwarfling in his hobbit hole was quite enough, thank you.

Although that dwarfling wasn´t even a dwarfling but a dwarf king who had, quite by accident, according to the parties who had been present – involved, rather, but no-one had been willing to acquaint him with any details yet and he probably did not even want to be acquainted by them, given who, exactly, had been involved and those puppy eyes and moustache braids-twisting really told him all he _needed_ to know – forced back into his toddling years. And since a toddler, as serious and opinionated as he might be, could not lead any negotiations with other dwarf clans his travel companions had apparently decided it would be best to foist him off onto the next unsuspecting hobbit of their acquaintance, which was one Bilbo Baggins, who would naturally be only too happy to - 

Except, Bilbo Baggins wasn´t happy.

Bilbo Baggins was -

“I – I´m sorry, Gandalf, I – can´t -”

He abruptly stood and handed the dwarf king babe to a surprised Fili, leaving the sitting room in a few quick strides and determindedly ignoring the unhappy cries and calls of his name.

~ ~ ~ ~

The Valar hated him.

All of them.

They _hated_ him.

And if they did not hate him they had to be joking.

And he was not going to play along with the joke, no, thank you, he was a respectable hobbit and would not -

Well.

Not so very respectable any longer, of course.

Somewhat disreputable, according to some of his more welcoming neighbours.

Entirely mad, according to most of the others.

But good for story-telling nevertheless.

And his baked goods.

No, he was _not_ going to share his great-grandmother Took´s recipe for plum cheesecake with anyone. (Although he _had_ let himself be talked into producing three of the same for his cousin Drogo´s betrothal party but really, his cousin had not stopped badgering him for days and – yes, well. He rather liked Drogo. Even if his cousin had to go and choose a _Brandybuck_ , of all hobbits.)

He was certainly not going to offer any cake to any Valar.

Not even a bite.

Not even a tiny crumble.

Because the Valar did not deserve any cake.

Because the Valar saw fit to give him what he most wanted only to simultaneously ridicule him.

What he had most wanted was -

Bilbo heaved a sigh, his eyes closing.

Thorin Oakenshield was in the Shire. 

In his home. 

In Bag End.

The one dwarf his heart had stubbornly and unrelentingly set on, no matter how many times he tried to convince the entirely obstinate organ that that was A Very Bad And Pointless Idea, was currently in his sitting room, in the arms of his nephew and – and he had missed the dwarf so very - 

And that´s where the crux of the problem lay, wasn´t it?

It might be Thorin but it wasn´t really _Thorin_ because the _Thorin_ currently in his nephew´s arms in his sitting room was In His Nephew´s Arms in his sitting room and the _Thorin_ he was acquainted with would never have permitted himself to find himself in his kin´s arms, at least not publicly; much less fitted into them, so whichever way you looked at it the truth was -

Oh.

Right.

That was a bit - 

Oh dear.

That was - 

He had -

Eru, he had given him a bath!

A _bath_!

And then chased his naked bu-

_Right._

Oh, they were all in such trouble.

The wizard, the nephews, the _bloody_ Valar -

He could only hope Thorin Oakenshield in his dwarfling years did not recall anything that happened before he had been forced into a relapse of infancy. And it was certainly to be hoped that Thorin Oakenshield back at his proper age and in his proper form would not recall a single thing that had occurred while finding himself so … uhm … reduced.

And while he was going to hope for all those things he was going to make himself a cup of tea.

And heat some milk for Thorin.

It was almost time for elevenses, after all, and neither of them had had any second breakfast and children, even temporary ones, needed to be fed and he would just go and be inconspicuously practical about the whole very inconspicuous, impractical situation and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at all and mash up some fruit – apples and a banana, perhaps, and there had been some teeth so a bit of toast might not go the wrong way and Fili and Kili could make themselves useful and clear away the - 

The hobbit had not even left the safety and sudden and inexplicable oppressiveness of his private chamber when there was a loud crash, followed by a yelp. 

And a curse.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo ran a hand across his face.

It really was too early for that sort of thing. 

Yes, the vase had been rather ugly but it was _him_ who was going to have to explain its absence to Great-Aunt Margery and generally, he preferred to absence himself from any circumstances that could call for having to explain anything to Great-Aunt Margery. It was enough that his consistent state of bachelorhood seemed to persistently call for discussion whenever that particularly loving relative of his paid one of her unavoidable visits. If one claimed to be a somewhat well-mannered gentle hobbit. 

“It wasn´t my fault!”

One disbelieving eye slowly peeked out from behind the hand, its message easy to interpret.

Or it was so for the younger Durin heir, at least, whose eyes went wide and who instantly set out to defend his honour. 

“ _Thorin_ did it!”

Or something.

Bilbo opened his mouth – only to shut it again; shoulders drooping in resignation. Tea. He was going to make tea. 

“Take Thorin and wash his hands, Kili. Don´t forget your own. Fili -” The older prince, who had watched events from the safety of a windowsill, a smirk on his lips, jumped at being addressed, his eyes flying from his small uncle to his brother to the hobbit and then back to his uncle. His look could be called – apprehensive. “You can set the table.” That brought palpable relief to the prince´s eyes. Which the hobbit did not feel at all inclined to investigate. Not before he had finally had his tea. Besides - “Where is Gandalf? He can´t have had second breakfast yet either so – Thorin, that was _not_ very nice!”

The toddling dwarf king, who had blown a rather impressive raspberry, seemed unrepentant of his actions and not at all fazed by finding three pairs of eyes trained on him. The chubby little cheeks could be said to be even puffing up a little under the snickering attention of two of their owners. All in all, the child gave the appearance of one rather pleased and unapologetic. And it was very hard for the clearly only rational being in the room to be stern and disapproving, faced with such an adorable pout when his sternness and disapproval would not give way to any applauding reaction but he was not going to encourage any rudeness and bad manners in his home – there had been enough of _that_ when those dwarves had first knocked on his door - and certainly not by an entirely too pleased dwarfling and so the hobbit swooped down, scooped the toddler-king up on his hip and ordered the two grown dwarves to both see to the table while he was going to take care of their uncle.

~ ~ ~ ~

“It´s not even noon yet, how did you manage to get your hands so dirty?”

~ ~ ~ ~

The look on the child´s face could almost be called affronted. And had the hobbit wishing he could be certain how much this version of Thorin understood and what, exactly, he was dealing with. Fili and Kili had shared that ever since The Unfortunate Occurrence the dwarf had been ill-tempered and grouchy and no matter what they did, what sort of amusement they offered, how many cuddles they tried to give him, the little boy remained unimpressed and at times strangely melancholic. If a child knew how to be melancholic. It had unsettled both young dwarves and they had begun to worry about Thorin even more than they had been worrying back in Erebor and -

And that had been were the confessions had stopped, rather abruptly, and they had suddenly thought of something very pressing they had to attend to – discuss – amongst themselves – you will look after Uncle Thorin, Bilbo, he seems to be happy in your presence - and they would be back soon - and quickly took themselves off. 

And the very strange, really quite inexplicable thing was that - 

Thorin _did_ appear to be happy in his presence.

Or at least not unhappy.

Quiet.

Calm.

Content.

Ish.

He certainly did not growl and swat at Bilbo and tended to quietly observe his doings in the cosy little smial, which the hobbit had found a little unnerving at first but had almost grown used to after some days. Little Thorin also very much tended to imperiously throw the word “Up!” at him whenever the mood struck him and Bilbo found himself with a dwarf king child on his lap or hip more often than not. And presented with an assortment of little sighs. 

And Thorin _minded_ him.

Favouring him with entirely too cute little sceptical and suffering looks, with the odd pre-adult Thorin-ish even cuter little grumble thrown in, but he _minded_ him. While having degraded his nephews to mere entertainment providers when the mood struck him (to find Fili crouching down in his mother´s old wardrobe during a particular inspired session of hide-and-seek … well) and according Gandalf the minimum courtesy required when one was still of a toddling age and occasionally required the assistance when wishing to retrieve an item from where it had been placed well out of one´s reach or was in need of quenching one´s thirst and one´s grown host was not around to see to it _immediately_. While ignoring the wizard the rest of the time.

Gandalf seemed rather patiently amused by this and the boys were only too happy to cater to their cute little uncle´s demands – needs – and apparently it was only Bilbo who had any qualms about the whole situation. 

Who was losing his heart to Thorin Oakenshield all over again.

To this imperious, demanding, entirely too endearing dwarfling version of the king he had fallen for many months ago. 

Who had made his opinion of him quite clear when he had not even deigned to offer him a greeting upon his taking leave of the Mountain. Yes, the king had apologised for his actions, and Bilbo had felt certain he had been truthful in his repentance, but that had not meant that Thorin had had any intention of trying to rebuilt their friendship and as for any deeper connection …

And now he was dealing with a very young Thorin who, and he really did not understand it at all but Gandalf seemed to think it most natural, while giving him _looks_ \- dratted wizard - had latched onto him and preferred to spend his time in his company and to cuddle up to him and just _be_ with him and who gave him such serious and strangely thoughtful looks all the time and how was he to manage it all when the dwarf was certain to turn back into his adult self again very soon and he would lose him again and yes, it was very selfish of him to wish he could keep Thorin and -

“I wish you were yourself”, he whispered softly, staring at the wall at the other side of the room while his left hand continued to gently run up and down the small back.

~ ~ ~ ~

“He misses you, you know.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo looked up to where Kili was leaning against the door frame, an unusually serious expression on his face.

“Kili -”

“It´s true!” The younger Durin walked further into the room, pausing at a small side table and reaching down to fiddle with some papers on the same. “We worry, you see. Fili and I. And Mother.” Kili frowned, clenching and unclenching his hand. “Uncle hasn´t been happy since you left. He won´t talk about it, of course, and he goes into complete Uncle Thorin Mode when we so much as _ask_ if he slept at all and Gandalf says we are not to bother you but -”

Kili looked up then, a mixture of pleading and determination on his face.

“Come _home_ with us, Bilbo, when he is himself again! We all miss you - _Uncle_ misses you so much he isn´t sleeping well, he spends his time cooped up in his chambers when he isn´t snarling at the Council - mind you, you´d snarl at them, too, if you were subjected to their boring inanities day in and out. Mahal knows _I_ wish to but I am The Prince and it behoves me to act like him or so Balin says but Uncle will snarl at a "good morning" from them, even, and we´re sure he´ll have one of their heads cut off soon at this rate and he´s given the Arkenstone to the elves because he can´t stand to be reminded of what he -” The dwarf prince suddenly straightened - and sniffed. Loudly. Twice. “Of course, if you don´t _love_ Thorin, I – what – no! _Wait!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

That was quite an impressive smoke ring, if he said so himself.

But not nearly perfect yet so it would be quite understandable surely if he were to continue to stay out there, on that bench that faced his garden, which was conveniently placed against his smial, to further practise. 

No-one could think it in any way out of the ordinary.

No wizards.

No young dwarves.

No even younger dwarves.

Especially not those who had been involved in that little, really quite unnecessary, far-fetched scene back in his library with one dwarfling dozing on his lap and the other, slightly overgrown one, assuring him of non-possibilities – because there had been no time, even in its smallest measurement (and that rather included the small measurement of a dwarf king currently residing under his roof), that the King had ever cared for him in the way that Bilbo had come to care for the King and even less possibility for the King´s behaviour to be in any way related to a hobbit residing in Erebor or not. 

The silence had been very telling, thank you.

He did not blame Kili – who was surprisingly romantic at heart – and he hoped that whatever ailed Thorin would stop to bother him once he was back in his Mountain and if he could help, well, then he would, of course, but Thorin _missing_ him …

Loving him - 

That was just - 

“I was ashamed.”

Equally absurd.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin stood before him.

Towered over him.

Which meant Thorin had turned back into Thorin in between the hobbit´s flight from the library and the minutes? Hour? Hours? he had spent outside in the sole, undemanding company of his pipe.

Thorin.

Looking every bit the King of Erebor and not at all like the small dwarfling toddler who had curled up to sleep on his chest and had thrown a wet cloth at him and had to be coaxed into eating his greens and – _Eru_.

Well, if anyone asked he would be happy to be able to report that the dwarf king´s mere presence was still very much doing complicated things to his heart.

Which was thumping wildly.

In his chest.

He would not be surprised if the dwarf could hear it.

Could he write it off as merely jumping in surprise? 

He had not expected company outside, after all. Been minding quite his own business. Alone. Happily.

Which he wasn´t any longer.

Because Thorin was standing there.

Thorin with his intense blue eyes and his silver-streaked mane and those were new scars and the dwarf looked a little worse for the wear and he was still so beautiful and no longer was he going to be able to enjoy the soft comfort of his tiny self´s presence and that realisation really broke Bilbo´s heart anew and - 

“I am sorry.”

\- that was just …

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo looked down at his hairy feet, fingers playing with his braces.

“I should apologise to you. Though I maintain that greens _are_ good for you.”

If the hobbit had looked up, he would have seen the hint of a smile that briefly appeared on the dwarf´s face. As he did not he had to make do with that deep, rumbling voice.

“I thought that was the bath?”

Right.

So he did remember … things.

Wasn´t that just - 

Well, if that was how the dwarf wished to play it …

It was not that he had had a choice, after all.

The king could take the matter up with Gandalf.

So - 

“Baths are generally a very good idea, unless they involve fountains. And any dwarves.”

“We bathed together on the journey, Master Baggins.”

“And that should have told you that I consider baths a very serious matter. Only a pressing wish for cleanliness could have provoked me into taking part in such a not at all respectable spectacle!”

And the tips of his ears were not at all turning red in recollection of a particularly appealing hairy chest glistering with - 

And why was the dwarf speaking in such soft, hesitant tones anyway? Was it not unfair enough of him to deprive him of the solace of small, pudgy arms that would lift up towards him in a speaking wish for contact? Not that he could blame him, entirely, of course – if given the choice he would very much prefer to be an adult version of himself, too – but now the dwarf would take himself off again and Bilbo would be alone and miss him even more than he would think possible and really, if he meant to go the dwarf should just turn around and go _now_ and leave him to his comfortable hobbit existence and take his silly, unnecessary apologies to where the - 

“The Mountain is empty without you.”

Or maybe he would just listen after all.

~ ~ ~ ~

The hobbit snuggled even further into the solid chest.

Thorin´s explanation – or rather, lengthy, self-deprecating, entirely and typically Thorin-ish apology (not that the dwarf was prone to apologise on a regular level but he took to the time-tested practise with the same earnestness and stubborn dedication he had taken to on the quest to a mountain in order to rid the same of a dragon) – which he had naturally, and eventually, had to stop by the equally time-tested and very much more pleasant siege of surprisingly soft lips – had convinced Bilbo that the King under the Mountain was all that was earnest in his professions of his deep love and his misery over finding himself without the one who had wormed his way into his cold heart – _your heart is NOT cold, Thorin!_ \- and at his own hand.

Deep shame over his actions and an even deeper conviction that he had not even deserved the forgiveness that had so quickly been granted him, much less to try and court the one whom he had ridiculed and accused and banished and _threatened_ \- 

The king´s features had contorted at the recollection of his deeds on the battlements and it had taken Bilbo to reverse the situation and, well, more or less crawl into a very nice lap and arrange a pair of strong arms around his form and lean into a strong embrace. There. Perfect. 

The hobbit would be quite happy to remain in that position the rest of the day. 

There was no dwarfling to wrestle into any baths any longer, after all (and the baths he _did_ intend to tackle with the dwarf would be of a very different nature, thank you), and no need to keep any eye on the doings of any inquisitive toddlers – excluding the princelings, of course, and really, he would have to make his special scones with cream for Kili now and - 

“Bilbo.”

He had missed that deep rumble. So very much.

“Hm?”

“I have to return to Erebor.”

That brought the hobbit up short.

“Thorin Oakenshield! If you are even thinking of leaving without any farewell -”

He found the finger that had begun poking the royal surface gripped in a gentle hold.

“I would not have been able to let you go.”

Oh.

Well.

He supposed he could - 

Even if his dwarf had been extraordinarily stupid, of course.

_Dwarves._

They clearly needed someone to sort them all out. In that mountain of theirs.

Starting with their lovely, exasperating, stupid, stubborn, beautiful, entirely too wonderful King.

His King.

Who was such a child, at times. 

Literally.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for you, Chamelaucium. My lovely fluff-provider. <3
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters and shamelessly rearrange the wonderful work of Mr Tolkien and Mr Jackson for my own fictional purposes.


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